High School Never Ends
by dudeurfugly
Summary: Enter the world of Gotham City High. A parody of TDK, as if the events took place in high school! UPDATED, NEW CHAPTER--"INTERLUDE: TWEETS FROM LAST KNIGHT"
1. Prologue: Enter At Your Own Risk

**Disclaimer: I'm just umm…stealing Nolan's sandbox for awhile, introducing a little anarchy, upsetting the established order and all that jazz. I'll try to give it back in one piece once I'm done. I don't own anything you recognize from TDK (note: while the principal and vice principal are named after Chris and Jonathan Nolan, it isn't actually them!), any outside references to pop culture—such as various YouTube videos, Facebook pages or bumper stickers, etc—or anything else I didn't come up with that may appear in this fic. I don't even own the title of the fic, which comes from a song. I'm just borrowing everything and making fun of them they cry…for entertainment purposes. **

**Warnings: Bad language, all kinds of violence, bashing of Gotham's educational system, parodying the hell out of the awesome movie The Dark Knight, smoking, teen partying, sexual innuendoes and humor, really strange humor, and finally, drug and alcohol use of the fictional variety. If any of that isn't your thing, turn back before it's too late…**

**A/N: Let me just explain a little about this fic before you read. I'm really not sure what this is genre-wise. It's quite random and weird. It's a mix of things, I guess. It's a borderline crack! fic parody that's…halfway serious at times. The best way to explain it would be to tell you that it's like the events of TDK taking place within a high school, not the entire city of Gotham. So, the characters are either faculty or students. It won't follow the movie exactly, and I may leave things out, add things, or make things different in order for the high school plot to work. This is all just for fun, so—enjoy! **

**And here…we…GO! **

* * *

**PROLOGUE: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK**

Dear Reader,

**Congratulations! **

It is our pleasure to inform you that you have officially been accepted into Gotham City High School. After reviewing your past grades and test scores, we have determined that you are capable of meeting the daily academic challenges that you will face here at Gotham City High. On behalf of the faculty and staff of this fine educational institution, we would like to sincerely applaud you on this wonderful achievement, and welcome you into the school community.

Gotham City High has been around for 70 years. Since 1939, we have been preparing our students for success in a wide variety of disciplines. The school has become a beacon of hope in this glorious city, providing opportunities and experiences to the future generations that no other high school in the country is able to offer.

We are excited to enlighten you on the many aspects of the high school that make it an especially unique place to obtain a superior education. We pride ourselves in having a diverse and exceptionally talented student body, representing all corners of Gotham City. Our faculty is well qualified, helpful, and committed to assisting students in reaching their goals and attaining the lofty standards that the school has set.

Gotham City High also has an overwhelming sense of community among the student body, and we want nothing more than to make you feel as though you are a part of an extended family. In addition to its outstanding academics, the high school has a broad range of athletic, fine arts, and extra-curricular programs and activities that are definitely worthwhile.

As a student here at Gotham City High, everything you learn and the friendships you form will last a lifetime. We hope that your experiences will be enjoyable, and that you will make the most out of your time with us. To say the least, attending this school is a day-to-day adventure. There is never a dull moment that passes here, and we hope that prospect is exciting to you.

Once again, we would like to extend our congratulations to you on this accomplishment, and we wish you the best of luck for the upcoming school year. We look forward to seeing you in the halls of Gotham City High School.

Sincerely,

Mr. Christopher Nolan

_-Principal- _

Mr. Jonathan Nolan

_-Assistant Principal-_

Mr. James Gordon

_-Dean of Students-_

* * *

Gotham City High School was like a fortress.

In fact, it probably could've passed for one in a former life.

It loomed in all of its gothic beauty within the heart of downtown, a striking feature among stories of polished glass, twisted metal, and modern architecture. The school held a strange old world charm due to its palatial structure—the man who had designed the building had been going for a castle-like façade. Although he had achieved that, upon gazing in its direction, many mistook the school for a prison or mental institution. Rumor was that GCHS had been designed by the same architect who helped build Arkham Asylum. The freak who'd done _that _basically had the right idea _here_… In every graduating class, at least a handful of the _bright_ young adults ended up in Arkham eventually.

And this glorious establishment was where the very future of Gotham was being educated. Promising, wasn't it?

The edifice was certainly impressive. It was made up entirely of slate gray brick—some of which was mismatched where repairs had been made and wings had been added throughout its years—and had huge, slanting roofs with tall steeples and even a couple castle-esque towers by its main entrance.

There were a variety of windows to account for the many rooms inside, all of them ornate in appearance from the exterior. The main entrance had two humongous doors set back a ways, and menacing gargoyles carved out of stone on either side. The gargoyle statues were often defaced with graffiti or broken, and it was a wonder why the administrators hadn't taken them off the property completely.

To top it off, the high school had perfectly manicured grassy spots with strategically placed trees and other flora, where students could lounge around on picnic tables and benches. They even had a nice football stadium in the back, used for other sports as well, and a small field for soccer and other activities. It really didn't seem like a bad place—actually, it was considered an architectural gem to the residents of Gotham City.

The teenagers who attended the school had a totally different perspective. The building _was_ like a prison to them, dubbed as _GCHS: The Institution for the Educationally Insane_ (mocking the Arkham Asylum that they were constantly being compared to) by some of its students. Life inside the walls of the high school was a perpetual struggle between good and evil. Better yet, it was Social Darwinism at its grittiest, made worse by the corruption that gripped Gotham like some sick, flesh-eating plague. At GCHS, you were either a bully, a victim, or you just stood the hell out of the way and minded your own business, hoping that you'd survive the four years.

Literally.

Now, yet another school year was beginning. That meant the cycle was starting again. A new class of freshmen would get a very rude awakening, and the rest of the student body would be back to their old tricks, gaining more authority by moving up a grade level. Transitioning the freshman class to life at Gotham City High was always a nerve-racking and dangerous time, because the upperclassmen had a tendency to "weed out" the weaker ones. And that was putting it nicely. The problem was, the freshmen weren't the only ones in trouble—even if you managed to survive thus far, it didn't mean you were safe.

It was basically another season of _Survivor: Gotham City_. Outwit, Outlast, Outplay—or be eaten alive by your peers.

Naturally, they left that part out of the orientations, school tours, and open houses. They had enough difficulty trying to hire teachers and other staff members who were nervous about these _rumors _that people had about GCHS. (Something about the mortality rate and other nonsense involving a student last year who had a fixation with mixing chemicals and wearing a burlap bag over his head—the Administration had a heck of a time trying to clean _that_ mess up.)

They couldn't risk scaring too many people off. They needed to make money, you know. Plus, those ignorant parents wanted their kids to get an education—of course—and since GCHS was a public school, it was cheap to send them there. Unfortunately for them, a quality education couldn't be achieved at such a school, where it was more likely that your kid would be mixed up in something illegal rather than getting an A on a test.

And you thought that acceptance letter was telling you the truth…

You poor, misguided soul.

Sorry to inform you, but whatever the letter said…they were lying. They just have to say that crap to make themselves and the school look good. It's standard procedure.

…So, prepare yourself, and enter at your own risk. This isn't _The Twilight Zone_—it's life at Gotham City High School.

Welcome.

* * *

**A/N: Please review, it'll be very much appreciated!**


	2. The Lunch Lady Regime & Cafeteria Heist

**Disclaimer: I don't own ANYTHING.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for reviewing, I'm so happy you all are interested in the story! Especially the WSSC (you know who you are!) who have been anxiously waiting for the fic to be posted! I can halfway guarantee not all the chapters will be this freakishly long. I kinda had a little too much fun writing this one…Not sure when I'll get the next chapter up, but since this one was already written, I just decided to go ahead and post it. Hope you like it! Please R&R!**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: THE LUNCH LADY REGIME & CAFETERIA HEIST**

_Monday, September 7, 2009 _

Monday.

The start of a brand-spankin'-new week.

That, in and of itself, was not a very pleasant thing. Mondays royally sucked, and if you went here, the suckage was _at least_ ten times worse. Especially when returning from summer break.

It was dawning on five-thirty, and the educational establishment was essentially just waking up. The head administrators hadn't arrived yet, but the maintenance staff was busy with last minute tasks, having been quite lazy over the long summer holiday. They'd complained that they weren't being paid enough to clean up after a bunch of good-for-nothing brats, and they didn't get good enough health benefits especially when people were dropping like flies around this place.

But I digress.

In the depths of the gourmet, restaurant-style kitchen, the lunch ladies were assembled around a rickety table with a dim overhead light. There were six of them, all dressed in generic clothing under their regulation black aprons and their hairnets secured onto their heads. An outsider wouldn't think anything of the assembly; the old women seemed innocent enough, looking more like kind, soft-spoken grandmothers. However, that wasn't quite the case. Appearances could, after all, be very deceiving. The "leader" was an old woman named Marge, who had worked at the school for almost two decades now. She was seated at the table sifting through the short stack of money that had to be placed in the cash register. Before the money could be put in said cash register, though, some business had to be taken care of among the lunch ladies.

Marge straightened the pile of bills using the surface of the table, and then tossed them lightly to the side as she leaned back in the squeaky, folding chair. Doris and Bertha were returning to their seats after prying open a nearby window and quickly lighting their cigarettes. Finally settled, the two of them each took a long drag, blowing the smoke in the direction of the opened window, similar to school girls sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom—just like the old days. Meanwhile, Gertrude, Phyllis, and Muriel were silently hoping Marge would conduct business soon, since they had a lot of work to do besides _this_.

The veteran lunch lady waited until she had the attention of the group—or, The Lunch Lady Regime, as they were known "under the table." Only the people they did business with were supposed to know about the title of their so-called organization. If anyone else by any chance knew the name and what they were up to, no one ever said a word about it to the Administration. Mainly, like everything in the school, it was out of fear. If you could create fear, you had power over the people who were scared shitless of you. The Regime had allies; friends in high places who could take you out Lunch Lady-Godfather style without a second thought. And they got pretty creative…

Marge cleared her throat louder than necessary. "All right. Same deal still stands from last year. We finance them, they protect us," the expert lunch lady and Regime leader announced in a heavy New York-esque accent that the rest of her comrades seemed to have as well. It was entirely too deep and raspy to fit her. "We keep our mouths shut, and they get rid of whoever tries to squeal. And we go on with our lives. Anyone have a problem with that?"

The lunch ladies nodded in agreement, affirming that they were fine with the deal remaining the same as it always had been. Carrying out deals with the various gang leaders was the only way they could survive in such a ruthless environment where the faculty and staff were picked off by the students, either killed or driven completely insane. They took comfort in knowing that their backs were still covered, especially since they'd made a few mistakes last year with holding up their end of the bargain—which had resulted in the termination of their former leader's position (they didn't talk about poor Wilma anymore).

While Marge proceeded to put the money aside in a special compartment within the cash register for safe keeping (so it could be used for whatever their allies needed), the rest of the Regime started to move about the kitchen to prepare for the day. Bertha snuffed out her cigarette, flinging it out the window. She then went to help Gertrude, Muriel, and Phyllis raid the refrigerators and the storage room in the back for the ingredients and supplies that were necessary for today's meals. In the interim, Doris stood by the window to finish smoking her cigarette. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she saw something on the floor that caught her interest. Upon further inspection, she discovered that it was a five dollar bill.

Thinking that Marge had somehow dropped it, she picked up the bill and began to approach the cash register outside the kitchen, by the lunch counter. Halfway there, she looked at it for a second time and found something unusual about it. Cursing her glasses for not allowing her to see properly, Doris held the five up to her face, peering over the rims of her spectacles. What she saw rendered her confused and slightly startled. On Lincoln's face, the eyes had been circled thickly in black Sharpie, while the mouth had an eerie, over exaggerated smile drawn in bright red marker.

Doris exited the kitchen through the set of doors closest to the lunch counter. Marge was putting the money safely inside the register.

"Hey, Marge, where'd this come from?"

Slamming the compartment shut, Marge turned sharply, squinting to see what Doris was talking about. Upon seeing the vandalized piece of currency, she simply shrugged.

"It's not ours."

"D'you think it's a warning?" Phyllis inquired timidly, moving out of the doors toward Marge and Doris with her hands on her hips.

Bertha had overheard the conversation from several feet away, and joined them, chiming in with, "Nah, probably some stupid brat's idea of fun. Just throw it in the register."

Shrugging, Doris took Bertha's advice and placed the five dollar bill into the cash register with the rest of the day's money, made sure the whole thing was locked, and then went to work. Muriel switched on the radio after she'd started on a large pot of homemade pasta sauce, tuning into the local oldies station. A song came over static-y—no one felt like messing with antenna; a futile battle that was usually lost—but it filled the huge room with a nice, uplifting melody. The lunch ladies were so engrossed in their matronly duties and light conversation that they never heard what was happening beyond the thick, steel doors of the kitchen before it was too late.

* * *

A black minivan screeched to a deafening half in front of the outside cafeteria doors, clouds of smoke billowing from the muffler and noises emanating from it that clearly weren't healthy. The van produced a sufficient amount of pollution to add to the layer of smog perpetually hanging over Gotham, _and_ had enough left over to burn a deep and lasting hole in the ozone layer. As if causing chaos and destruction within the high school at their boss' orders wasn't dramatic enough, the occupants inside the vehicle had to take it a step further and add to the global warming crisis.

The piece of crap belonged in a junk yard, to put it simply. It was missing a hubcap, and one of the windows was covered in black plastic garbage bags and half a roll of duct tape. One of the doors didn't match the rest of the vehicle in color, and the back hatch of the trunk had some sort of graffiti on it.

If they were trying to be inconspicuous, they weren't succeeding. Not they gave a crap. They'd…uh…_borrowed_ the car from a collision shop a few blocks away and they'd ditch it when they were through with their job.

Inside the van, five teenage boys were dressed in dark clothing, all wearing inexpensive variations of clown masks purchased the previous weekend at a party supply store. The shelves had been stocked since June for Halloween to get a jumpstart on the holiday sales. Even though they'd been marked down, the teenagers had shoplifted them from the store. _No way_ were they wasting $4.79 on a crappy mask. That was valuable snack-buying money! They rarely paid for those, either. Still, it was the principle of the thing.

The boy in the middle of the backseat was munching contentedly on a breakfast burrito he'd bought during their early morning fast-food run (it wasn't good to cause any sort of mayhem on an empty stomach), his clown mask pulled upward, resting on the top of his head. His noisy chewing was detected by the teenage clown in the driver's seat, who twisted around awkwardly to glare at his comrade through the plastic disguise. The clown who'd played chauffer and had graciously made that fast-food stop for his hungry colleagues in crime when he didn't have to (the Boss certainly wouldn't have), racked his brain for the other boy's code name. He honestly couldn't remember any of their given names—not even his own. The Boss didn't have any use for their real first names and had therefore passed out alter-egos of sorts to each of them.

Sleepy? Happy? Grumpy? Or was _he_ Grumpy? What the_ hell_ was it…?

He doubted the Boss would even remember. And like everything in this "line of work," it really didn't matter anyway.

"Dopey," he called, finally settling on a name. "You done yet? We don't got all day to be waiting for your fat ass. The Boss'll be pissed if he shows up and we ain't doin' our job."

"He won't show." 'Dopey' said with a mouth full of breakfast burrito. He shifted his position, leaning back further in the seat, dropping bits of food all over himself. He crossed his legs at the ankles, rustling the empty wrappers from himself and the guys that had been tossed carelessly onto the floor. "There's no way. He sends us in to do his friggin' dirty work and expects somethin' outta it. Circus _Freak_."

Annoyed, the clown in the driver's seat—_Grumpy_, he finally decided—grabbed the damn breakfast burrito from Dopey and threw it aside, where it hit the other guy sitting in the passenger's seat—Sneezy—right in the face. Sneezy grunted in response, pushing the now mutilated burrito off his lap, where it had consequently landed.

"Everybody out of the car." Grumpy ordered.

No one moved. Sleepy and Happy were _actually_ half-asleep on either side Dopey, who was staring forlornly in the direction where his beloved breakfast burrito had been so viciously thrown. He'd already inhaled three of them, but he'd still been quite hungry…hadn't Grumpy over-reacted just a _little_? Really, what was his problem, PMS? Dopey understood why the dude had been given the title of Grumpy after all. It was like he had a huge stick permanently wedged up his ass. And he thought the _Boss_ was moody? This guy took the cake.

"NOW!" Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass barked. Dopey scowled, pulling his mask over his face. Sneezy bolted from the car, almost shitting his pants at Grumpy's sudden outburst. Happy and Sleepy jumped awake, startled, and practically tumbled out of the vehicle in an effort to get their severely sleep-deprived bodies in motion. Casting a hard, death-wish-type glare at the infuriating clown so aptly named Dopey, Grumpy exited the minivan and slammed his door shut with enough force to shake the entire car. Grumpy remained in the back seat pouting like a five year old. In his mind, dozens of_ colorful_ words he could use to describe his superior were swirling around.

Suddenly, the back door slid open and a furious (or so he assumed, since the mask he wore covered his expression, treating him with a smirk instead) Grumpy stood on the other side. Diving across the van, Grumpy pulled the heavier teen clear out of the back seat and flung him onto the pavement. Dopey scrambled to his feet, but Grumpy grabbed him firmly, taking a fistful of his shirt in his hand.

"You got a problem, take it up with the Boss."

Dopey let out a girlish squeak, fearful.

"Just remember you can be easily replaced." _That_ was directed at each one of them. Releasing Dopey, Grumpy joined the other three henchmen at the trunk of the van where they were unloading their weapons. Lifting a piece of tarp, Grumpy revealed a pile of what looked like actual guns. However, their outward appearance deceived them. They weren't loaded with bullets…they were loaded with something much more…_fun_. Grumpy took his own weapon as Dopey sauntered over, avoiding his gaze. Once they were armed, Sleepy shut the trunk, and the small group of teenagers moved toward the cafeteria door. It was unlocked like everything else in the school. The Administration was too cheap to invest in any kind of security system or teach the staff about safety measures, so getting in wasn't a problem.

Grumpy led them inside, and they crossed the sea of tables and chairs, knocking things over as they went. Sneezy noticed the lame-ass 'WELCOME BACK STUDENTS' sign that had been hung up across the back wall. Turning around, he trained his gun on the offending piece of laminated paper and fired off a shot, pelting the banner in bright green paint. Witnessing Sneezy's shot, Happy got a bit…_trigger happy _and fired at the arrangement of vending machines which were also situated against the back wall. They were instantly splattered with a mixture of green, purple, and red paint. All five of them made a mess with the paint-filled pellets while they advanced on their goal—the cash register. It was located in the front of the room, to the right, behind the counter of the lunch line. Beyond that counter was the kitchen, where they knew the lunch ladies would be.

They could always take the money and run, but there wasn't much excitement in that. Plus, the Boss had said he wanted a show…

Sleepy and Dopey hopped over the lunch counter, nearly tripping over each other, and approached said register. Sleepy pushed the 'Open' button like it was the damned spawn of Satan—a piece of technology he was either afraid of or had no clue how to operate. The stupid thing was locked and required a special key to achieve access to it. It figured that this would be the _one item_ on school property that was closed up good and tight. On top of that, neither one of them knew where this supposed "secret compartment" was. Dropping his weapon, Dopey looked at Grumpy tentatively, while Sleepy just stood there staring off into space.

"Dude, we don't have a key."

Grumpy, who had been ready to burst through the other set of doors to the kitchen with Happy and Sneezy, whirled around and fired a few pellets at the dim-witted clown. Dopey was living up to every negative connotation associated with his code name and therefore grating on his already thin patience. He watched with some satisfaction as Dopey groaned from the impact of the paint pellets, stumbling backward.

"I don't care how you do it, just get into it and take the money!" he growled, receiving snickers from Happy, Sneezy, and Sleepy, who'd found a dirtier meaning to his words and choice of phrasing…somehow. "Is that so hard to understand?" Happy's continual chuckling didn't go unnoticed by the teenager in charge. He swiftly smacked Happy in the back of the head out of irritation.

"OWW! Man, what was_ that_ for?"

"Shut up," he commanded. "Get moving." He nodded his head in the direction of the steel double-doors, holding up his index finger. Quietly counting to three, Grumpy shoved the door open with his shoulder. The lunch ladies, busy at work, immediately froze upon seeing three young men in clown masks invading their territory. Doris, Muriel, Phyllis, and Bertha all turned their stares to Marge. Marge was at a loss—weren't they promised _protection_ from these kinds of attacks?

It was a good thing she knew self-defense as a cautionary backup. It was always helpful to be prepared for _anything_ at Gotham City High School. Being a veteran of the Regime, Marge knew this.

After a moment, Marge went toward the one whom she'd perceived as the weaker one—Sneezy—wielding a heavy, stainless steel frying pan. A shower of paint pellets flew past the Regime, exploding everywhere and blasting them with a rainbow of color.

…That is, if the rainbow was bright green, purple, red and black. Maybe in_ their_ world it was.

Phyllis and Muriel ducked for cover, not exactly up for a fight. They cowered behind the island in the center of the kitchen, occasionally peeking out to survey the damage and watch the brawl. When the coast was clear, they hauled ass to one of the storage rooms to wait it out. Meanwhile, Bertha and Doris stood by Marge, dodging paint and using various cooking utensils and kitchenware as shields and weapons. Happy, Sneezy, Grumpy had to evade many flying spoons, forks, and even a couple of knives hurled in their direction.

Marge was like a maniac. She'd donned a heavy, Army-looking helmet out of nowhere and started chasing Happy around with the frying pan while Grumpy bombarded her with paint. Happy had never seen an old woman move so freaking fast. He was afraid for his life, especially since Sneezy had been knocked out by Doris' rolling pin in the midst of the bedlam. Bertha had taken a few pellets to the back and had therefore collapsed from exhaustion and pain. Doris had nearly been knocked out by Marge's lethal frying pan—on accident, of course—and had subsequently holed up in the storage room with Muriel and Phyllis until everything was (hopefully) settled. It came down to Marge against Happy and Grumpy, with Sleepy and Dopey outside doing who-knows-what.

Finally, Grumpy smacked the pan out of Marge's hand using a series of rapid-fire shots. Happy, thinking he was safe, paused to catch his breath. He stared up at the crazy old hag, petrified. She let out an uncharacteristically low growl, swiping some of the black paint from her clothing with her finger. She smeared two lines of it on her face, one on either cheek. Happy swallowed hard. Grumpy shot her with paint again, trying in vain to take her down. How was this old woman so resilient? Annoyed with the paint pellets, Marge seized a whisk from the counter nearby and chucked it expertly at Grumpy. It whacked him at full force in the stomach like a point-blank punch, and he fell to the ground, his weapon slipping from his grasp.

Now was Marge's chance to finish off Happy. She glared down at him, cracking her knuckles threateningly. Somehow, even though this woman reminded him of his sweet, loving grandma, Happy was absolutely terrified. He was so terrified, in fact, that he nearly peed himself. This grandma meant serious _business_. She wasn't going down without a fight. Unfortunately for her, she wasn't able to pound him into dust like she wanted. Grumpy regained consciousness promptly and hit her in the back of the legs. And boy, did she go down like a sack of potatoes…

Happy scrambled to his feet, and Grumpy picked himself off the floor, kicking Sneezy's foot. The teenager was sprawled awkwardly on the floor and was out cold. Groaning, Grumpy exited the kitchen to check Sleepy and Dopey's progress with the cash register.

He wanted to shoot them both with a _real _gun, if he had one. They were hitting the cash register with their fists and guns, like _that_ would magically make the stupid thing open. What idiots—he could strangle them both! Dopey had actually removed his shoe in order to use it to beat the crap out of the inanimate object. They couldn't have located the key in the time he, Sneezy, and Happy were fighting off the Regime? They couldn't even find something to pick the lock with? That was the whole point of them going in there; they were creating a distraction and taking out the Regime while the other two were supposed to be tracking down the key. They'd done_ nothing _of use. Where the hell did the Boss _find _these morons? Grumpy couldn't take it.

"Give me that!" he shouted at Sleepy, pointing to his paintball gun. He'd left his own in the kitchen since it was empty and useless. He grabbed Sleepy's gun and using the butt of it, knocked both of them out. There wasn't any reason to keep them conscious when they weren't doing a blessed thing to help the situation. They slumped to the floor, one after the other.

Suddenly, there was a loud _clank_ from the depths of the kitchen.

Happy screamed. Why did they all scream like little girls? What was the deal with_ that_?

_Clank_.

"No! Please, _let me go_!"

_Clank_. "You insufferable little monster!"

"Get away from me with that thing, lady! You're insane!"

_Clank_.

Silence. There was a loud and miserable sigh.

"I'm getting to old for this shit."

That couldn't be good…

Grumpy dove over the counter, rolling across the tiled cafeteria floor. He scooted forward on his haunches, trying to escape. Screw the money and the Boss' job—he was getting the hell out of here. He still had Sleepy's paintball gun as Marge burst through the kitchen doors, holding her deadly frying pan like a baseball bat. She was sort of crouched down, ready to strike like some old lady version of a cobra. She walked around the counter, eyes darting every which way. Grumpy remained on the ground, lying flat on his stomach now, gun facing outward. He'd barely fired a few shots when something happened so unexpectedly that it stopped both of them in their tracks…

* * *

The Dean of Students, Jim Gordon, approached the front doors of Gotham City High School, wearing a nice suit with his briefcase in hand. He paused to take a breath, and consequently coughed from inhaling the pollution corrupting the air. Why did it seem like the dirtiest, darkest cloud of smog constantly hung over the school? Was that meant to be like some sort of warning? He didn't especially care to know.

It was a new semester at his place of employment, which was stressful, yet thrilling in an odd way. He had the unfortunate job of disciplining the students—the source, most likely, of his steadily graying hair. Each year everything appeared to get worse, like Gotham City High was being sucked further and further down the drain. Gordon tried his hardest to keep everything under control, but sometimes it became a bit overwhelming.

He told himself this year would be different, though. Things would get better. It was the 70th anniversary of the school's founding, after all. It wouldn't be nearly as bad as usual. Nothing could compare to losing the science wing and spending thousands of dollars over the summer to have it rebuilt. _Right_?

He firmly believed—

The building shook right before Gordon's eyes, disrupting his thoughts. Not as harsh as if an earthquake had struck, but it was perceptible. His hand hadn't even_ touched_ the door and now he had this very sudden bad feeling crashing down on him like a ton of bricks—

"Damn it _all_."

* * *

Grumpy had zero time to get out of the way. If he'd made an attempt, it wouldn't have been fast enough. Out of nowhere (or so it seemed), a massive yellow school bus tore right through the wall of the cafeteria, shattering the windows and causing the brick and other pieces of structure around it to crumble. The sound was practically deafening—all that could be heard was the screeching of the wheels on the tile and the incessant scraping and collapsing of the building it had hit. As it came to a halt in the middle of the room, the bus crushed and toppled tables, chairs, and anything else that happened to be in its path.

A rouge table flew at Grumpy, and that's when he _knew_ he was basically a goner. Or at least, he knew he was going to be injured very, _very_ badly. That was not a good feeling in the least. The table flung him back a number of feet before completely falling on top of him. Shocked at the sight, Marge let the frying pan clatter to the floor. She didn't want to find out who had driven that bus into the school, but she couldn't get her brain to tell her body to run. She wanted to get somewhere safe—maybe the storage room with the rest of The Lunch Lady Regime—because she just knew she was too tired and sore to fight off another one of these brats. She was going to have a bone to pick with the people she did business with later; they weren't holding up their end of the deal to her satisfaction. Seeing that no one was getting out of the bus yet, Marge figured she had some time to get her ass in gear.

But she just couldn't _move_.

* * *

Gordon took a couple of guarded steps back, as if the entire building was going to disintegrate into ruin if he so much as placed his _fingertips_ on the door handle. It very well could have for all he knew. He sighed quite audibly, closing his eyes out of frustration. He hadn't set foot in the school, and he was already overcome with extreme aggravation. And_ why_ did he still choose to work here…?

He had yet to find an answer to that question.

"Walk away…" he told himself quietly, calmly as he could possibly manage. "Just walk away."

He did, too. He ambled back down the steps and stood several feet from the building, making an effort to compose himself. He needed some mental preparation before he went to investigate how much of the school had been destroyed _this_ time.

He put his free hand against his forehead, his back to the edifice.

"I don't want to know," he said, talking to himself again. "I don't. One day. All I ask for is one normal day." He almost laughed aloud. _Normal_? Who was he kidding? Gotham City High's—and the whole of Gotham City, for that matter—normal wasn't anywhere near the same level of normal that the rest of the world operated on. "Is that too much?"

Apparently so.

* * *

Smoke filled the cafeteria and bricks continued to tumble from the aftermath. Marge was frozen in place, gaping at the scene before her. She slid slowly down to the floor with her back against the lunch counter, trembling out of fear. Wide-eyed, Marge watched someone stumble from the bus, shrouded in the thin layer of smoke. The first thing she noticed about this mystery person was the vibrant purple Converse sneakers. Her gaze traveling upward and she saw a tall, wiry teenager wearing clothes that seemed way too expensive for a mere high school student.

The ensemble was all purple and green. Purple pin-striped suit pants, a green and lilac vest and periwinkle-ish shirt, with a tie, all underneath a large purple coat which appeared to be almost a size or two bigger than he needed. He was impeccably dressed for someone who'd just crashed a bus into the high school cafeteria. His slightly curly dark blond hair held a tinge of lime green, which in her opinion looked like a dye job gone awfully wrong. Was that what these kids were doing to their hair these days? She wondered.

However, the most peculiar and frightening feature of this young man was his face. It was plastered first in white paint, along with black outlining and covering his eyes, as well as bright, blood red smeared across his lips haphazardly. The red curved upward in an unsettling manner to emphasize the deep scars that marred his young countenance. Marge couldn't believe the state of this teenager. His mother actually let him go out of the house like _that_?

The teenager in question adjusted his coat by tugging on the lapels, and sauntered around the bus with an uneven swagger. He was humming something, not paying any attention to her, which she was somewhat thankful for. He inspected the damage with a pleased glint in his eye, giggling and continuing to hum to himself. Marge knew the song; she was too preoccupied with her fear to place it. The teen caught something out of the corner of his line of vision, and walked to where Grumpy had been crushed by the table. He giggled madly again—the sound made Marge let out an involuntary squeak. His head snapped in the direction of where he'd heard the yelp, laying eyes on the lone lunch lady. He started skipping over to her—_skipping_; what was _wrong_ with this boy?—and instead of humming this time, he was singing in a low voice.

"_The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…"_

Really now. Was he serious? Marge couldn't begin to comprehend what was going on. The teen's voice got nasally as he sung, creeping her the hell out.

"_The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town_," he smiled at her, the scars making it look twice as large and intimidating. "Why _helloooo_, there." He crouched down to her level.

"Why are you doing this?" Marge asked him nervously. "Kids your age don't come to school to tear it to pieces! You should be ashamed of yourself, young man! When I was in school—"

The teenager scoffed. What was that, like billions of years ago when dinosaurs roamed the Earth?

"—we used to believe in getting good grades…"

Another scoff.

"…and good behavior…"

He grunted.

"…and free snack days! _You_—"

She didn't get a chance to finish her sentence. The mysterious teenager grabbed Marge by her god-awful hairnet (the Army helmet had fallen off sometime during the kitchen battle) and got obnoxiously close to her face.

"_I_ believe…what doesn't kill you, simply makes you…_stranger_." Thoughtful, he paused for a moment. "Like, for example, your _crap_py excuse for cooking-_uh_."

That was low. Marge didn't particularly care for_ that_ comment. She tried to open her mouth to speak but he covered her mouth with his hand. It was only then that she realized he was wearing purple leather gloves. This boy was clearly not right in the head… He produced a card seemingly out of thin air, and held it up in front of Marge's face for her to see.

It was a Joker. How…_fitting_, Marge decided bitterly.

"Hold onto this for me, would ya?" He shoved the playing card in her mouth and tapped her cheek in a mockingly-affectionate gesture. He got to his full height and jumped agilely over the counter. He took the entire cash register with him and skipped off toward the exit of the cafeteria to go who-knows-where in the enormous school. Marge spat the disgusting card out, not wanting to know where he'd gotten it from and where it had been previously.

Glancing around at the disaster area that had once been the cafeteria, Marge figured it was probably a good time to start thinking about retirement.


	3. Same Chaos, Different Day

**Disclaimer: It's not mine. **

**A/N: Thank you again for the kind reviews! You guys are awesome! I'm so sorry for leaving this for a long time, things got hectic, but I will certainly try to, slowly but surely, update. I know there's a lot of description and not a lot of dialogue in this chapter, but it's just to serve as an intro to how everything works and to explain some of the school to the readers. Please, bear with me. All of the info is important, I promise!**

**CHAPTER TWO: SAME CHAOS, DIFFERENT DAY**

_Monday, September 7, 2009_

There was a bus in the middle of the cafeteria.

A freaking _bus_.

Principal Chris Nolan had received a call a short while ago from the Dean of Students, Jim Gordon, saying that he needed to get down to the school ASAP because there was some kind of "situation." He'd rushed to the school to find quite a scene. The cafeteria was ripped to shreds, there were teenagers in clown masks passed out all over the place, lunch ladies who'd locked themselves in the back storage room, vibrantly colored paint _everywhere_, a missing cash register, a giant school bus conveniently parked dead center in the room…and a partridge in a pear tree.

Just kidding. Unless the partridge in a pear tree was Marge, who had been discovered in an almost fetal position, too stunned to give them any details of what had happened. She kept rocking back and forth with a blank stare on her wrinkled face, singing what Nolan thought was that children's song, "The Wheels on the Bus." Which was…odd.

When Gordon had described it as a_ situation_, he certainly didn't expect to see this. Although really, he should've, since he'd worked here long enough to tell what Gordon's panicked tone actually meant.

Now, Nolan stood by the bus, watching the caution tape being strung up around the crime scene and the lunch ladies being questioned by Gordon, while the teens in clown masks were taken away to the hospital wing to recuperate before receiving their punishments. So many crimes occurred every year at GCHS that the Gotham City Police Department didn't bother to get involved. Gordon usually took care of these things himself. He liked it better that way. Less paper work.

Nolan glanced down at the Joker playing card he held. It had been uncovered lying on the floor by Marge. Obviously, whoever had been the mastermind behind this had meant to leave a calling card. Last year, there had been a psychotic student in the junior class calling himself Scarecrow and poisoning other students with some crazy hallucinogenic drug, which had caused the entire high school to erupt in mass panic, not to mention a certain Jonathan Crane (_the_ Scarecrow, as they later revealed) blew up the science wing with his experimentations. It could've been worse, really. Considering the level of crime and violence in Gotham and the number of juvenile delinquents running around this school, things could've been much, _much _more catastrophic. But if the bus in his cafeteria was any indication of how this year was going to play out, then Nolan couldn't say he was exactly _thrilled_. This 'Joker' character was their newest threat, and they'd be lucky if the building and the student body got through the entirety of the year fully intact.

Hands on his hips, Gordon approached Principal Nolan. Nolan passed him the Joker card, which he tucked away into his suit jacket for safe keeping. Gordon peered over to where Marge was currently being escorted to the hospital wing by a nurse. She was barely moving on her own, and she hadn't blinked for about ten minutes.

"We may have lost Marge to Arkham."

"And after twenty years of working here," Nolan mused. "Just goes to show that no one is safe."

"The maintenance crew is going to clean up what they can. I'll go call someone to get an estimate for the damage and someone_ else_ to get the damn bus out of here." He sighed. "I need some caffeine."

Nolan glimpsed at his watch. "Kids start arriving yet?"

"Some," the Dean of Students replied, heading toward the exit of the cafeteria, intent on making a stop at the teacher's lounge. "Coffee?" he called to Nolan as an afterthought. "I may be able to slip a little something extra into it."

Although the thought of a pick-me-up sounded good, the principal answered with, "No, thank you. I'll be by the front entrance. Let me know when you've made those calls."

"Will do."

Shaking his head at the wreckage, Nolan left it behind him and went out into the main corridor of the vast high school. It was literally like Gotham's version of Hogwarts, minus the dorms because Nolan didn't feel the need to have the students sleep here. It would've probably created a plethora of other problems on top of the ones he had now. It would've been just an additional hassle. However, he had knowledge of students who _did _sleep at the school on occasion. He figured since it wasn't hurting anyone, he let it go. Nothing would change, anyway, if he'd said it was against school policy. A lot of students ignored those things called rules, thinking that they were, well, _optional_.

Yet another issue he and Gordon had to deal with.

But that was life in the most crime-ridden city in America. Naturally, the younger generations wouldn't fit in if half of them weren't delinquents.

_Anyway_, moving onward…

The school was a never-ending maze. Winding staircases on either end of the hallways led up to the other floors and down to the basement level, and there were a few elevators installed for faster travel. Most students opted for the stairs seeing as the elevators were often a pain to wait in line for, and the majority of the teens never felt like being packed into them like sardines. High, vaulted ceilings with ornate light fixtures were the norm throughout the building, in keeping with the castle architecture. There were a couple hundred classrooms—maybe more—and some weren't occupied or used for anything. It wasn't uncommon for the kids to take up residence in an empty room and use it for their own purposes. Nolan had tried to monitor these non-GCHS organized groups, but there were so many of them that it was pointless to even try.

There were white walls (well, they were _supposed _to be white, but they were in dire need of a paint job) where the natural slate gray brick wasn't exposed, often plastered with flyers and banners during the year. The lockers, painted with the school colors of black and silver, were on every level. They weren't the small ones, either—you could stand inside them comfortably even with all your crap stored in it (why you would _want_ to do this is unknown, but it's a good fact for those unfortunate teens who got shoved into their lockers to be aware of). Nolan couldn't count how many times in a day he was called to a locker with the master key because someone had been stuffed into it by another student, and the combination lock had been secured. Each student had the privilege of owning his or her own locker, and if they wished to, they could keep that same locker for the duration of their stay at GCHS. Some even had multiple lockers and practically lived out of them.

The principal shuffled forward, taking in his beloved domain. It was almost a luxurious school, with the exception of the spider webs hidden in the corners, the dust, the graffiti, and the grime in the cracks in the floor and in those other often neglected spots, like the corridors that were rarely used these days. They had a difficult time keeping the place clean. For one, it was a big building, and two, the custodial staff gradually got smaller throughout the year despite the faculty hiring more during each summer. They would quit, get driven to the _other_ mad house, mysteriously disappear, or…get killed.

Nolan repeatedly wondered how the school had managed to stay open this long. The real miracle was that the school hadn't _completely_ blown up. Well, _yet_. He guessed that the city wanted to contain most of the juvenile delinquents in one place, so unfortunately for him, they all ended up here and the outside world turned their heads the other way whenever something horrible happened inside the walls. It wasn't all bad. What good was a job if it didn't constantly keep you on your toes? He preferred working at a place where every day was a challenge compared to some lame job where he would be stuck in a cubicle somewhere dealing with frustrating people and idiotic questions. The kids could be frustrating, but at least they were somewhat entertaining. Other people were just stupid and ignorant. Despite its corruption and constant mayhem, Nolan liked the little kingdom he'd created here at GCHS.

He neared the end of the hall, letting his eyes wander every which way. Some students—the early birds, overachievers, and teacher's pets just to name a few—had assembled by their lockers and offered a smile or small wave in greeting as he passed. Usually several of his renowned troublemakers arrived early, too; he figured they were lurking. And when they showed up, he would _know_. Their antics were hard to miss.

Polished shoes clicking on the tiled floor, Principal Nolan glanced at his watch again with a sigh. The morning rush of students would be arriving within minutes, and then the _real_ fun began. But for now, he enjoyed the temporary calm (or as calm as this place could manage) that had settled over his realm. There were whispers of students talking about their summer, the squeak of a dry erase marker somewhere down the hall, and the smell of chalk and pencil graphite mixed, of course, with the heavenly aroma of coffee brewing in the teacher's lounge.

Principal Nolan keep on walking, pausing briefly to inspect the progress done to repair a large broken window belonging to one of the classrooms. It had been the result of Batman's latest escapade, when he did a very impressive James Bond-esque roll through the window, coming to the aid of a freshman who was being bullied by an upperclassman. The true identity of Gotham City High School's Batman was a mystery even to him, but he didn't have a problem with it. In fact, it helped the faculty--especially Jim Gordon--with maintaining some order, justice, and discipline in an often hectic setting.

Continuing down the hallway, Nolan stopped once he reached the short stairwell by the main entrance of the school. Arms crossed over his chest, he took a moment to admire the bronze plaque that hung on the wall near the landing, next to the large black and silver banner that stated boldly, 'GOTHAM CITY HIGH SCHOOL: HOME OF THE KNIGHTS'. A likeness of the school's founder, Mr. Bob Kane, had been engraved into the bronze, along with the date in which the high school had been established--the year 1939. And lo and behold, 70 years later, the place was still going strong. Unfortunately, the building wasn't up to par like it had been since it first opened, but that was expected in a city such as Gotham.

The front door of the school suddenly opened, interrupting Nolan's thoughts. The student was one he knew all too well, in fact. The kid was a sophomore; a fairly pudgy boy who'd probably received one too many fists colliding with his face. It didn't help any that he was an avid hockey player on the junior varsity team, gaining injuries there as well.

"Good morning, Brian." Nolan said brightly. He watched the young man climb the stairs cautiously, head snapping back and forth. The sophomore was incredibly paranoid, but he had perfect reason to be--Nolan remembered last year when poor Brian Douglas spent an entire day hiding out in the guidance office with Mr. Lucius Fox, refusing to attend class after he'd been victimized by a group of bullies. Sure, Brian was a hockey player, but he constantly got picked on--Nolan often wondered why he couldn't properly defend himself. He was like one of those sensitive tough guys. It didn't make sense.

"Is it…_safe_?" Brian's voice shook.

Nolan peeked around the corridor. He could never be sure where the resident bullies were lurking, and frankly, they scared the crap out of him (he would never admit that to anyone but himself), but he offered a reassuring smile to Brian nevertheless.

"No, I believe you're safe for now."

Brian cringed. _For now_. Story of his freakin' life.

And with that, he trudged down the hall toward his locker, praying to the heavens that there wasn't some kind of sick, horrific surprise waiting for him. The thumbtack taped underneath his combination lock hadn't been too pleasant last year. Or the other thumbtacks (presumably the rest of the box) that had been tossed into his gym sneakers, either. It seemed that no matter how many friggin' times Brian changed his combination lock, or went out of his way to avoid any trouble, he was always an easy target in this damned place. He cursed his parents for not letting him transfer.

Nolan peeked out the doors to see the busses pulling in and cars stopping in front of the building. The morning rush was here. He had to steel himself quickly for another day, another year at his insanely beloved high school. He moved out of the way, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, with a look on his face similar to a spectator at a show. In fact, watching the students enter Gotham City High School was like witnessing a red carpet affair for the Oscars…minus all the glitz and glamour, hellacious interviews, and mobs of paparazzi. It was common knowledge that GCHS had its fair share of "celebrities"—students who were popular because they didn't even have to try, or they had all the right connections, or they had more or less done something worthy of notoriety. It was part of the intricate, ruthless food chain of high school. Here, it was just downright brutal on most days. But, Nolan figured they'd done it to themselves—he didn't have any control over the social networking that the students were involved in. Teens would be teens. Or, in his case, an interesting not-so-balance of good and evil.

He just hoped the kid behind this morning's bus-through-the-cafeteria-cash-heist-and-paintball-gun-Joker-card stunt would show.

Nolan wanted to know _exactly_ what he'd be up against this year.


	4. Batman Is Not Amused

**Disclaimer: It saddens me deeply that I own none of this. **

**A/N: Hey guys! I managed to write out a nice, long chapter for you…hope you like it, and at least find it somewhat humorous. I try to be funny, but I don't know if it always works…hopefully it does. Bear in mind that while this is a parody of the movie, not all of the events will appear exactly as they are in the film. Since they are in high school, I'm going to include normal high school things as well. That's all. Enjoy, and please review!**

**CHAPTER THREE: BATMAN IS NOT AMUSED.**

_Monday, September 7, 2009_

"Attention all faculty and students," the voice of Gill Loeb reverberated through the halls over the PA system as the population of Gotham City High flooded through its doors, "Due to a major accident this morning, the cafeteria has been blocked off until further notice. An alternative lunch will be provided in light of the lunch ladies' absence. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause, but we did not foresee a bus crashing into the side of the building."

A murmur erupted within the student body, although no one was particularly shocked. Not even the freshmen, who caught on quick and knew all the rumors before ever stepping into the school. After an event like this, there were the people who couldn't care less, and the people who _had_ to get the inside scoop.

Nolan sighed, keeping his place near the entrance, while those people made a mad dash for the cafeteria doors, which they would find chained up and padlocked, with caution tape strung around the perimeter. Gordon was down there now, probably doing his best to keep the nosy teenagers at bay. There was no doubt in his mind that Mike Engel was leading that pack, plotting out the next headline of _Gotham Today_, the tabloid newspaper that the administration "didn't know about." Nolan had already given him a segment for the homeroom news program, what more did he want? Admittedly, the principal had been known to furtively pick up a copy of the tabloid, if nothing but for amusement, but the majority of it was pure crap.

"Also, be advised: there will be a random locker check this afternoon. You know the drill."

* * *

Meanwhile, in the rear of the building near the parking lot, a gray minivan pulled up to the alley outside the back doors where multiple dumpsters were overflowing with garbage. Because most of the maintenance staff had…_disappeared _and none had been hired yet, all of the crap left over from last year had been piled in them and left for the animals to scavenge. A lanky, gawky-looking figure dressed in a tailored suit waited by the dumpsters, swatting away flies.

The minivan stopped, tires screeching across the pavement. Out jumped a couple of teenage boys, led by a heavier set one who had been driving. He slid the door open and freed an overly pampered Poodle wearing a Bejeweled pink sweater and a Chihuahua with a spiked collar. The heavy set teen took them by the leash; the Chihuahua started yapping away, growling at the teenager hidden in the shadows. The pint-sized dog was shaking like a leaf, while the Poodle began an effort to run in the opposite direction, yanking the leash until it reached its full length.

"Nice van," the figure remarked.

"Can it, Scary," the husky teenager answered, in a thick accent of some unknown origin that might've been somewhere in between Middle Eastern and Russian, "Mother vould not let me take truck dis morning. And she make me bring stupid dogs!"

The Chihuahua kept on barking, snapping at one of the foreign teen's cronies. The crony kicked at the dog, aggravated.

"Get off me you mutt!" he warned. "Off, I say!"

The foreign teen turned to the figure, pointing to his mommy's beloved pooches. "Look! Look what your drugs did to Mother's dogs!"

The figure that stepped out of the shadows was none other than Jonathan Crane, one of the most high profile criminals among Gotham City High's student population, wearing his famous burlap mask over his head like no one actually knew who he was. The foreign teenager figured that he was one of those kids who liked to play Dress Up and never left that phase behind…there was a psychological phrase for that, wasn't there? Some psycho mumbo-jumbo he couldn't care less about, but he was pretty sure it counted as a kind of disorder…

Word on the street was that Crane had served a summer-long community service sentence working under Dean Jim Gordon's watchful eye. No one thought he would be able to return to the school after the kind of stunt he pulled last year, but not unlike most of the pupils, Scarecrow wasn't one to follow the rules.

Scarecrow crossed his arms. "Well, what the hell were you doing giving it to dogs? I don't test on animals, you know." He lifted one hand up and started picking at his nails impatiently. "I'm not responsible for your idiotic mishaps."

The foreigner stepped forward, sticking a beefy finger in Scarecrow's face. "I don'…like…you!"

"Once again, not my problem," Scarecrow countered in monotone. "Can we speed this up a little? I have people to see, things to do, minds to corrupt…"

"I have customers! Mother's dogs eat toxin! I lose money! Nobody win!"

"So cry me a freakin' river. You don't like how I do things, don't buy. Find someone else, Mama's Boy."

"I have Mother's dogs eat your skinny ass!"

Scarecrow put his arms out in front of him, his hands beckoning them forward in a "bring it on" gesture.

"I'd take pleasure in watching them try." The Chihuahua growled at Scarecrow, earning a laugh from the masked man. "Are we done here…?"

The foreigner glanced around at his cronies, jaw dropping open. Scarecrow heaved a sigh, bored, and made for the back door. He walked through it, the foreigner hot on his heels, unhappy with the service—or lack thereof—he was receiving. The cronies stayed behind while their leader dragged his mother's drugged out dogs along with him. He was not even halfway down the darkened, abandoned corridor behind Scarecrow when out of nowhere, a dark shape tackled him to the ground. He threw the lumpy shape off him with a groan.

It was one of the victims he picked on mercilessly—how _dare_ he?!

"BRIAN!"

Brian Douglas lay in a heap on the floor, dressed in full goalie hockey pads. He scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself awkwardly with all the bulky safety equipment he wore. His eyes went wide when he saw how pissed off the foreigner was, and with a fearful whimper, he took off running toward Scarecrow. Shoes squeaking on the tiles of the floor, he made a running leap toward Scarecrow in attempt to pounce on him tiger-style. He landed hard against Scarecrow's back, and the two of them toppled forward, rolling across the hallway. Brian landed on the masked teenager, who immediately wheezed, groaning from the impact.

"GET. OFF. ME!"

"You're not getting away this time!"

"GET OFF, YOU FAT BAFFOON!"

Reaching a partially crushed hand into his pocket, Scarecrow took out an aerosol can and sprayed some of the substance in Brian's face. Brian went into an instant fit, flailing and screaming at the top of his lungs, completely hysterical.

"NOOO…DON'T LET THEM GET ME! THE SNAILS ARE GONNA POKE MY EYES OUT! GET THEM AWAY! GET THEM AWAY!"

Under his mask, Scarecrow rolled his eyes, unable to comprehend what Brian was rambling about. "Some of you people are afraid of the strangest things…"

Another shadowy form interrupted Brian's bad toxin trip, swooping in and pulling him off Scarecrow. Batman, Gotham City High's self-proclaimed protector clad in a black suit, cape, and mask that covered everything but the lower half of his face, pushed him aside.

"Ooh, it's the _Bat-man_ come to save the day! How damn convenient!" Scarecrow proclaimed.

Before Batman could deal with the masked teenager, the foreigner let go of the dogs' leashes.

"Sick 'im!"

The Poodle sat where she was, ignoring the order, while the Chihuahua took off, yapping and generally acting tougher and much bigger than he actually was. At his full height, Batman glanced down at the tiny, yuppie dog and _thought_ about laughing. He didn't, though, because showing any sort of emotion whatsoever was not his scene. It wasn't "cool." He was all about intimidation and growling—lots of growling.

"_Really_?" he mused, revealing a voice that seemed like it had skipped right over puberty and gone straight to raspy old man who'd been a chain smoker since birth. Or something to that affect.

Batman strolled right past the dog and to the foreigner. Brian, still reeling slightly from the toxin's effects, charged after him. He held the teenager off with another annoyed growl.

"Go away, Brian."

"I just want to help…"

"This is the antithesis of helping!" Batman snapped.

He went after the foreign teen, the two of them struggling for a few minutes before Batman knocked him out. Going back to Scarecrow, where that stupid Chihuahua was relentlessly snapping at his heels and snarling, baring small, yet very pointy teeth. Batman raced to him, but Scarecrow kept running down the hallway. Desperate to catch him, Batman took an Indiana Jones-esque whip from his belt and flung it in Scarecrow's direction. It wrapped around his legs, trapping him and making him tumble to the ground. Taking long strides over, Batman hauled him to his feet and got in his face, about to formally confront him, when Brian shoved himself between them, using his arms to keep them at a distance.

Then, a rare moment occurred—Batman and Scarecrow turned to Brian at the same time and shouted, "BRIAN! GET LOST!"

Brian hung his head. "I want to help!"

"For the last time, I don't NEED help!"

Scarecrow stifled some laughter, but just barely. "Well, for a dude dressed up as a gigantic fucking bat, that remains to be seen…"

Batman was not amused.

"Says the_ dude_ wearing a potato sack over his head," he pointed out in his ever-present growl. "Because that's _real_ sane."

Scarecrow put his hands up. "Oh—whoa, is that sarcasm I hear? I'm surprised at you, _Bat-man_…I didn't know cynicism was a part of your arsenal."

Brian cut in with a perturbed grumble. "You're not the only one in this place who can run around all high and mighty fighting crime! Who says I can't? Huh?" he ranted.

"Douglas, you're on every bully's daily hit list. You're weak. You're the pesky little bug that won't go away. You aren't qualified. Let the professionals handle it, and give it a rest," Scarecrow advised.

"Save the hockey pads for on the ice," Batman added. Turning to Scarecrow, he asked, "Would you like to take this outside?"

"I'd love to," Scarecrow answered, mockery lacing his words, "but sadly, I have classes to attend. While staying here and exchanging insults is tempting, I find the prospects of expanding my mind much more satisfying. Later, _Bat-man_."

* * *

On the opposite end of the school, Principal Nolan saw GCHS' resident "It" couple entering, holding hands and basking in the glow of innocent, naïve love.

It was no secret that Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent were the most popular among the student population. Everyone who's anyone knew about them. All of the guys wanted to be the football stud quarterback like Harvey, who also doubled his efforts in the school's Mock Trial and Community Volunteer Clubs, in an attempt to help better the city. He seemed to have anything a teenager with dashing good looks and a charming personality could ever want, which made those who were lower on the totem pole insanely jealous of him. His girlfriend, Rachel, was no different. She was a member of Mock Trial and Student Council, and stereotypically enough, she was also on Gotham City's cheerleading squad. She was the epitome of beauty and brains, and had her own following of girls trying to be like her, to the point where they wanted to actually _be_ her.

This is why the group of Harvey Dent Fangirls was not far behind, lusting after the attractive young man. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel spotted them and rolled her eyes, tightening her grip on Harvey's hand, leaning into his shoulder. The HD Fangirls let out a collective groan, glaring daggers at Rachel, who tried to pay no mind to them and continued walking.

Suddenly, Rachel's best friend, Anna Ramirez, came running up beside her, arms laden with heavy books.

"Harvey!" she called. She caught her breath once she reached them, "Harvey, I've been working on your campaign for Student Council president all summer, and I really think I have something great. Here, take a look." Anna tugged a horrendously fluorescent pink piece of paper from one of her books and handed it to him enthusiastically. He read it with Rachel peering over his shoulder, looking displeased. At once, Anna realized her mistake.

"Oh. Hi, Rachel." She deadpanned.

Rachel frowned.

"The Harvey Dent Appreciation Society?" the teenager himself asked incredulously.

Anna smiled, blushing, until Rachel shot her a look that clearly said, _Girl, if you touch my man, I WILL cut you._

"I thought you were on the Bruce Wayne bandwagon," Rachel stated.

"He's completely last year. Don't you know anything? You dated the guy! He's old news. Harvey's totally in now."

"Of course," Rachel said. "What about that…hall monitor thing you're doing for Gordon? Aren't you supposed to be helping him?"

"I have skills in multi-tasking, unlike some of the male species. And, Wuertz has hall monitor duty this week. He has this crazy theory that Batman and Santa Claus are one in the same…personally, I don't know if Crane's toxin caused some permanent damage to his brain, or what…anyway, Harvey, I still have to get a group together, but—"

Harvey gave the flyer back. "Why don't you try back there? I'm sure you'll have some willing volunteers." He jabbed his thumb behind him, pointing to the Fangirls who were giggling and trying to shush each other at the same time while simultaneously speculating over what brand of hair products Harvey used to keep his gorgeous blonde locks looking shiny and perfect. Once they noticed he had motioned to them, a few let out a Fangirl Scream and others hyperventilated to the point of passing out in the middle of the hallway.

The gesture went unnoticed by Anna.

"We'll make posters and buttons and stickers…_oh_, we'll have to make up a slogan…"

"You do that, Anna," Harvey said gently, "Knock yourself out. We'll see you later."

Slinging his arm around Rachel's shoulders, the two of them walked off contently to homeroom, leaving a still babbling Anna in their wake.

* * *

Meanwhile, Gordon was holding a crowd of teenagers off. Thirty or so students had gathered in front of the cafeteria doors, shouting and demanding to know what had gone down. Gordon took a breath and made an effort to talk over them.

"Please, for the love of—keep away! Don't you kids ever listen? …No, Marge didn't go postal. Yes—yes, another part of the building was destroyed, why do you think we have it blocked off? Don't touch that. I _said_, don't touch that…You'd think I was talking to a bunch of five-year-olds…" He took another breath, just to hold onto his remaining shred of sanity. "EVERYONE GO TO HOMEROOM, or I'll give ALL OF YOU detention!"

Once the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Detention for this many students would be a punishment unto himself, since he ran the damn things. Fed up, Gordon ducked into the cafeteria, where a clean-up crew was busy at work, getting rid of the debris and backing the school bus out of the building. He took a moment to pace in a small area of the room where it was fairly clear, and ended up running smack into Batman.

"Whoa! Why do you always _do_ that?"

"My job requires ninja-like tendencies."

"Well, cut it out. It's…unsettling."

"I think that's the point," Batman observed. Gordon produced the Joker card from his pocket, showing it to his ally.

"He's the one who tore a gaping hole in the building."

"That seems to be a favorite around here. How'd he do it?"

Gordon pointed to the bus in a way that said, _Are you not seeing what I'm seeing?_

"Hm. Creative."

"Very," Gordon agreed.

"And I see he managed to re-decorate the place. Not the colors I would've chosen. To each his own, I guess."

Gordon looked slightly worried, and a bit disturbed. "Uhh…well, anyway, I think we were right about Marge and the rest of the lunch ladies."

"They're on the _other team_?" he replied. "Man, I knew something was going on between all of them…"

"No, not that," Gordon clarified, shaking his head. "I meant the money thing. And who knows where they're hiding all their dirty cash…" A moment of awkward silence ensued before Gordon finally turned his attention back to Batman, only to find him gone. A second later, the bell sounded for homeroom.

"That's seriously starting to piss me off."


	5. eHarmony & An After School Special

**Disclaimer: I don't own, as much as I wish I did! **

**Author's Note: Just a constant reminder, that some things in the plot will be added, left out, or changed around. I want our lovely Gothamites to get the whole high school experience…**

**CHAPTER FOUR: eHARMONY & AN AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL **

_Monday, September 7, 2009_

Rich kid Bruce Wayne—ya know, the kind of kid in school you want to hate out of blatant jealousy for having everything you don't have (except maybe…_parents_ in this case…oops. Too much? There was probably a line that was crossed, but it was smudged to begin with, so the hell with it.), and shoving it in your damn face, but love anyway because they are oddly…charismatic?—skidded down the now mostly vacant hallways toward his homeroom, hastily buttoning the front of his disgustingly expensive Armani suit. He stopped to a sharp halt in front of the lockers outside the classroom and checked his reflection in the grimy metal (someone so good looking could_ always _see their face in a surface, even ones that weren't so…reflective; it was a strict law of Beautiful People Physics), running a hand through his clean-cut brunette hair. He planned to waltz in late, and as per usual, no one would ask about it, question it, or manage to put the pieces of the puzzle together about his _extracurricular_ activities. No one suspected a thing.

Morons.

He never got into trouble for it—the constant tardiness—either, which was always a given when you were that unbelievably fucking rich. _That's right, bitches. I own this city._

Remind me to turn off Wayne's inner monologue from now on.

Anyway. Bruce glided easily into the room, wearing that smug, holier-than-thou smirk on his handsome face. He sunk into a desk in the back of the room, breathing a sigh of relief. _With five minutes to spare. Damn, I am smoother than my silk sheets_ _imported directly from India._

Shut your face, Wayne. We _get_ it, you're absurdly wealthy. You don't have rub it in every two seconds just to stroke your own ego.

The teacher was preoccupied with Facebook, leaving the rest of the class to their own devices until the bell rang for first period. Some were halfway paying attention to Mike Engel's homeroom news segment, where he was—_yet again_—questioning some poor schmuck about their thoughts on the high school's own ninja crime fighter. Bruce relaxed as much as he could in the rickety, stiff-as-a board chair, enjoying their theories. That is, until he caught sight of a certain couple sitting a few rows in front of him.

He sat up straighter, leaning over his desk to frown moodily. Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent were practically eating each others' faces directly in his line of vision. Rachel looked reluctant at first, like a good little school girl, until she was confident that the teacher was absorbed in sending out mass amounts of Bumper Stickers and planting crops on FarmVille. Then, she and Harvey went at it, playing tonsil hockey for the whole homeroom to enjoy like spectators. They didn't even have the decency to find a maintenance closet down the hall…

Turns out Bruce wasn't the only one pissed off by the PDA (never mind the fact that Harvey-boy stole what could have been his childhood friend-turned-girlfriend and date for Prom over the summer—one summer! The dude was _quick_!). He spotted a very sullen looking Anna Ramirez to Rachel's right, gawking at them with her chin in her palm. The other hand was clenched into a fist under the shelter of her desk. If they hadn't been best friends, Bruce would have put money on Anna decking Rachel in the face. He knew anyone else in the room would pay to see a catfight. He would have preferred, however, the two of them fighting over _him_, not that unfortunately attractive bastard.

Anger getting the best of him, he tore a sheet of notebook paper from his binder and crumpled it into a wad. Reeling his arm for the pitch, he let it fly in Harvey's direction. The paper ball made contact with the back of his head, and the HD Fangirls in the room let out a loud gasp of shock, conveying a stern warning: _HOW COULD YOU??! _Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne's…one, two, three…four?

He only has _four_? Jeez, dude, tough break. You may be rich, but in the Fangirl department, you're an epic fail.

Bruce Wayne's _four_ representative Fangirls rose to their feet, wielding designer shoes with sharp stiletto heels and designer purses as weapons. The HD Fangirls stood as well, holding up heavy textbooks and laptop computers. Brains vs. Beauty…Smart vs.…stupid. After some threatening glares were traded, they sat down and composed themselves for the time being, but the tension still remained.

Harvey whipped his head around, blue eyes landing on the culprit. "Wayne?"

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?" Other than, you know, Rachel sucking face with your social arch nemesis…

Rachel glowered. _Thanks a lot, asshole. _

"If you want practice for tryouts,"—though, he didn't picture Wayne as the athletic type; wouldn't wanna mess up that nice suit—"the Fangirls are easy targets. You should work on your aim."

The Fangirls let out dreamy, high pitched sighs at being mentioned by their idol; a few of them fainted on the spot.

"My aim's _fine_, thank you," Bruce replied curtly, through gritted teeth.

"Bruce, what the hell?" Rachel asked.

"Nothing, I just wanted to get your attention."

"By hitting my boyfriend in the back of the head with a paper ball? _Real_ mature."

"It seemed effective," Bruce said proudly.

"You could've just asked, man," Harvey stated. Out of reflex, he interlaced his fingers with Rachel's to calm her down some. This made the playboy bachelor's temper flare.

"My social and economic status says otherwise," Bruce told him. "I'm above all of that politeness bullshit."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "What did you want?"

"I'm having a party at my place tonight. You're gonna come, aren't you?"

"Oh God," Rachel groaned, subjecting herself to a much-need facepalm, "not another one of your parties."

Harvey looked lost. "Am I…missing something here?"

"Yes, and unfortunately, you'll be missing it again." Bruce put his hand up next to his lips to shield them from Harvey's view and mouthed, 'For the love of God, do _not_ bring him with you!'

"I'm right here, Wayne," Harvey deadpanned.

Rachel allowed herself to explain. "He has these parties every year," she clarified for her current boy toy, "A couple of them, actually."

"Hey, it's just a nice opportunity to relax and be a little…carefree once and awhile—"

"Like half the school isn't already _carefree_?" Harvey questioned, lifting an eyebrow.

"—It's like a big 'ol _fuck you_ to a school night," Bruce finished, sidestepping Dent's comment. Such language from a wealthy high school yuppie…

"Yeah, which usually ends in disaster!" Rachel hollered.

"Oh, come on, it's always a lot of fun! If you're gonna be all pissy about it, I'll revoke your invitation."

"Need I remind you that you got shitfaced and burnt your house to the ground the last time you hosted one of these shindigs?! You're an _idiot_!"

"A little debauchery never hurt anyone," Bruce proclaimed. "So, are you gonna go, or not?"

"I'll think about it, as long as you don't puke on my shoes this time."

"I can't guarantee anything," Bruce said as the bell rang for first period. Everyone got up and headed for the door. Bruce was exiting before Harvey and Rachel, but stopped and turned around in the doorway to plant a supposedly jealousy–inducing afterthought. "Oh! And I want you to meet my new girlfriend! See you at eight!"

Leaving the now perturbed couple behind, he took off into the corridor which was heavy with student traffic. Bruce navigated through the hallway, checking his schedule. He had first period…Home Economics. He was pretty sure he'd signed up for Woodshop, so what kind of pansy crap was_ this_? Shoving the schedule away, he trudged to the stairwell. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, allowing the billionaire stud to make his way through, up to the Home Ec room. He was certain that he was going to be the only dude taking a class about cooking and sewing. Bruce now had a bone to pick with the Mr. Lucius Fox, the school guidance counselor.

He stepped in, and sure enough, the population was overwhelmingly female, with the exception of Coleman Reese. Bruce always wondered about that kid… He sat at the table next to Reese, reason being that he was the only other person of the male species. Then again, it gave him an opportunity to find a girlfriend for tonight.

Bruce turned to his sole male ally. "You didn't willingly sign up for this, did you?"

Reese, who often looked nervous and insecure, jumped slightly at the question. The kid seriously had some kind of neurotic thing going on, with an abnormal amount of perspiration to go along with it. Why the hell did he keep glancing over his shoulder?

He nodded, shrugging. "I like baking."

"And here I thought you had a _y _chromosome," Bruce muttered hopelessly. He gathered up his stuff and looked around the room. Low attendance, as usual. He found one familiar and promising face out of the bunch and stole the seat next to her before anyone else could, earning a few nasty stares. "Hey, Natascha."

The exotic, gorgeous Russian blonde looked at him and laughed. "Bruce Wayne, _v_what are you do_v_ing 'ere?"

"I think I got the wrong schedule."

She smiled knowingly. "Nice try."

He decided to dive right in. She would say yes. Totally. Who'd say _no_ to _Bruce Wayne_?

Rachel. But that's beside the point…

"So, I'm having this party tonight—"

She scoffed, amused. "No."

"—it's at my place, just a little get-together—"

"No."

"—and I'd really like it if you were my—"

"_No_!"

"—date."

He stared at her like a neglected puppy. He couldn't believe it. Did she just…?

"I said no, vwhat part of that is not getting through? Am I speaking a foreign language here?"

He gaped at her, not finding the pun particularly hilarious. She did. She just flat-out rejected Bruce Fucking Wayne.

DENIED.

How's your ego _now_, Brucie?

He sulked like a little boy who'd just been severely punished, turning his back on Natascha. He folded his arms on the top of the table and put his head down. Just then, the Home Ec teacher, Alfred Pennyworth—who also doubled as Bruce's personal servant, lucky him—entered the room, surveying it for an approximate head-count.

"Not bad for a first day," he declared in a heavy British accent, "Truth be told, I was s'pectin' a lot worse."

Bruce sat pouting for the entirety of the forty minute period, blocking out Alfred's lecture on what they would be doing in this class all year long. Everyone knew that the first day of school was a complete waste of time, which accounted for the shitty attendance rates. Not that Gotham City High prided itself on students with immaculate attendance, anyway. Teachers were usually just relieved to see bodies taking up space in the desks; if they were paying any attention or not wasn't their problem.

The bell woke him up at the end of the class, and when his head snapped up, Natascha was already out the door. He collected his supplies and jumped from the chair, tripping and knocking over a display of pots and pans in the front of the room on his way out. They clattered to the floor with a deafening, crushing sound, skidding across the tiles. A few of the remaining students, and some of the ones who were walking in for next period's class, didn't even try to stifle their laughter.

Alfred threw him a stern-father look, commenting in a low voice, "For someone with your…_job,_ you aren't exactly agile."

Bruce glared, and then growled something along the lines of _shut up_ before exiting after Natascha. Charging through the hallway, he pushed his fellow students from his path, stalking the graceful dancer to her locker. Out of breath, he stopped at the locker next to hers while she spun the combination of her lock.

"Natascha," he wheezed.

She frowned, opening her locker and deliberately smacking him in the face with it as it swung open.

"Oof!" Bruce saw stars on his not-so-graceful trip to meet the tile on the floor._ Oh, so this is what it looks like underneath all the dirt and grime and…is that blood?_ Lifting a hand to his nose—what the hell was she doing, attempting to sabotage his dashing good looks?_—_he was relieved to find that the blow hadn't broken it. With a groan, he picked himself up, dusting off the overpriced Armani suit. Natascha was busy getting her things ready for dance class. And, she was blatantly ignoring him. Or at least making an effort to.

"Natascha," Bruce tried again.

"If you keep sayving my name, you vwill vwear it out."

"Natascha—"

"Do _not _make me get a…restraining order against you _again_! Stop talking to me!"

She slammed her locker shut and started marching furiously down the hall.

Sometimes, she couldn't wait for her exchange program to be over with. They had a halfway decent dance studio at the school, but she would never have picked Gotham as her first choice. It wasn't her fault, really; some stupid Joe Six-Pack working for the student exchange office had messed up all of her paperwork, and when she got here he told her an unconvincing _sorry _and said it was too late to transfer. If she got killed while attending this school, her parents were _so_ going to sue for everything this damned educational establishment owned. She'd had about enough of this rich kid's never-ending quest to date her. So much so that she had actually thought about crossing into the more dangerous corridors and pleading with one of the juvenile delinquents, 'End it, please!'

But today was not that day. And Bruce was still on her heels, persistent.

"Look—"

"Bruce, you are annoying me," she sighed.

"All I need is for you to show up," he continued, "Just _pretend _to be my girlfriend for _one_ night! That's all I'm asking."

She spun around on her heel. "Why? So you can make that…that Dawes girl jealous? That's pathetic!" she spat. "Not to mention, a cliché used in almost every teenage movie known to man."

Bruce groaned. "I'm gonna look like an idiot."

"You already do."

"I need a date."

Natascha rolled her eyes. "Then try eHarmony."

With that, she disappeared into the crowd of students before Bruce could catch her again. He heaved a sigh, feeling about as pathetic as she had just accused him of being. He couldn't believe that he could not get a date. What kind of sick world was this? If he couldn't find a date for his own freaking party, Rachel would never take him seriously. The whole Make Rachel Jealous plot wouldn't obviously work if he didn't have a beautiful someone to tote around and play the part as his personal Arm Candy. Bruce needed to rethink this.

For the first time in his life, Bruce Wayne actually considered, for a moment, using eHarmony.

He was clearly losing his touch.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, word was spreading about Bruce Wayne's little gathering at his penthouse. All it took was for Anna—who had obviously witnessed the entire interaction between Rachel, Harvey, and Bruce—to say something to one of her friends. Someone else overheard it, and in the blink of an eye, news about the party had reached pretty much everyone. And after Bruce's infamous birthday bash last year, everyone who was anyone, or trying to be anyone, wanted to be there to see what kind of crazy shit would go down this time. The rich kid didn't know it yet, but his guest list was about to multiply exponentially. A "nice little get together"? Not in Gotham—not by any means.

* * *

At the same time, in the darker corridors of the high school where many feared to tread, a figure was lurking, dressed in a royal purple overcoat. He hopped merrily down the slimy looking halls, still humming to himself and giggling over the raucous he'd successfully caused in the cafeteria. _How's _that_ for a, uh, first impression?_

The change in the cash register clinked noisily while he skipped along, scanning broken doors, dented-in lockers, and shattered glass display cases. It looked like a regular ghost town in this part of the school. Not that he cared; he actually preferred this kind of setting. It helped his image. He continued strolling down the hallway, stopping once he picked up on some rather…strange noises emanating from one of the abandoned classrooms. He halted in front of said classroom, hugging the bulky cash register to his wiry frame.

It was classroom 666. Although, really, at one point it had been 699, but the last two digits of the room number had rusted from its hinges and fallen down to create the triple-six instead. He thought about the irony of both numbers (which was about to get worse), cracking a nasty smile. Stereotypical enough, he deemed the place acceptable for his activities. Now, if only the occupants inside could _clear out_…

It wouldn't be hard. Just a little messy. The thought excited him; he would need to redecorate the place, anyway. Blood would undoubtedly go well with the carpet and the curtains.

Glancing around suspiciously, he dropped the cash register onto the floor with an unceremonious _clunk_, and glared up and down the hall as if to say, _Touch it and I chop you into itty bitty pieces and feed you to the snake in the Biology room _to whomever else that happened to be creeping about. This place was sketchy. He liked it, but there sure were a lot of _freaks _here. Who the hell let some of these people in? Who exactly was in charge of admissions? He wanted to meet these people and have a nice little _chat_…

He withdrew a knife from his pocket and closed the small space between himself and the door. He paused once his shoe crunched on something. Bending down, he picked up a piece of paper that had been folded and crumpled one too many times.

_Party at Wayne's penthouse! Invite everyone!_

He made a mental note of it somewhere—he'd have to find it later; who knew where it all went up there once he tried to store something? His mind was a secretary's worst organizational nightmare—and continued, tossing the paper away carelessly.

In one fluid motion, he turned the handle and charged in—

Immediately, he almost regretted the action. Nothing had made him want to gouge his own eyes out with one of his knives more than the sight before him. Some girl and her—presumably, although one could never tell—boyfriend were going at it on top of one of the desks. They weren't fully clothed, of course, and now he understood what was up with the weird noises. They hadn't heard him enter because they were too preoccupied with other things, but he decided they needed to stop. He needed to _make_ them stop.

He could never understand why people his age were such slaves to their own hormones…

He sighed impatiently. They stopped what they were doing and glanced up at him, jaws dropping like they'd just been caught doing it in a backseat of a car by their parents. Yeah, they needed to go. He hated the stupid looks slapped across their faces. It was irritating. He brandished the knife, causing both of them to gasp, making vain attempts to shield their exposed bodies from view.

Approaching them with a deadly glint in his eye, he told the loving couple thoughtfully, "Ya know, teenage pregnancy is a…uh, a real problem." His grip tightened on the knife. "They do all these…studies and come up with _conclusions_ and statistics…it's a real _mess_. You don't really want ta be one of those _statistic_ people, do ya?"

The girl looked at him, disbelieving. "Thank you, Mr. After School Special."

He shrugged indifferently. "Hey," he replied. "I'm just tryin'-a save you from a visit ta…Planned Parenthood. Mommy an' Daddy wouldn't like that, now, uh, would they?" He looked at the knife in his hand, then at the two dazed and confused lovers.

The guy was horror-stricken, watching the knife's every move. "Hey, man, watch it!" he hollered. "Put that away!"

"_This_?" the purple-clad teenager mocked, waving it dangerously close to the guy's face, "It just so happens that I need this. And…it _just so happens_ that you're…ahh…invading my humble abode." He gestured grandly to the vacant, cobweb ridden classroom they stood in.

"I need _this_," he waved the knife again, "'cause today we're _slashin'_ prices and everything must…ah, go!" He glared pointedly at the two of them, howling with laughter. Neither of them laughed, of course.

He _tsk_-ed. "No sense-a humor anymore," he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

Peals of laughter and terrified screams tore through the hallway, but since this part of the school was like Space, no one would ever hear it.

Even in the off-chance that someone had, they wouldn't have cared.

* * *

A/N: Reviews would be awesome and much appreciated :} Spread the word about the fic--we're just getting started, lots more chaos to come! Look for a sort of "Interlude" chapter to follow; it'll be updated later this week!


	6. Interlude: Tweets From Last Knight

**Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own The Dark Knight, just the DVD, and the shooting script. I don't own Twitter, either. **

**A/N: This chapter...I don't even know, haha. First of all, sorry it's late--I've been sick. The plot just randomly appeared, and I went for it. It's not the official parody of these events in the movie, it's more like a little different style parody of events to come. Just something that popped in my head and I thought it would be interesting, as to sort of foreshadow some of the stuff that happens in the future. This is the little shindig Bruce holds at his penthouse, for himself, Rachel, and Harvey...and he hopes, Natascha. Maybe consider it a little interlude…? Not sure—don't ask me, ask the characters. They get into all sorts of trouble. Oh, and I know in the fic Gordon isn't really the Commissioner, he's the Dean of Students, but I couldn't help using the nifty Twitter username… **

**Oh, and I'd like to take this moment to mention my wonderful partners in crime from the "Tales of Gotham" RPG board, because I feel very honored that we're now going to have an entire RPG site based around this amazingly chaotic fanfiction right here! You guys and the WSSC are awesome :}**

**Enjoy this little chapter because it was an interesting experience writing it... (Just a note: when another person's username appears after the poster's username, it's supposed be "at" that person. For some reason doesn't keep the "at" symbol.)  
**

* * *

**INTERLUDE: TWEETS FROM LAST KNIGHT**

_GOTHAM CITY HIGH TWITTER NEWS FEED:_

**Commish_Gordon:** There are 100,000 yellow Number 2 pencils on the floor in my office. I don't want to know how they got there.

**BruceWAYNE:** You know you've had a good night when you wake up to find half of Gotham High passed out in your penthouse.

**AgEnTofcHaOs**: **Commish_Gordon** HA HA HA HA HA…they weren't cheap, ya know. You owe me $10,000. Pay up…or die.

**R_DawesXx: **I'm missing a boyfriend. And…why do I have facepaint all over me?

**HarveyDent: **I have a wicked headache…possibly the headache to end all headaches…ughhhh

**R_DawesXx: HarveyDent** Where the hell are you??

**BruceWAYNE:** My wallet is missing—what the fuck?

**Commish_Gordon:** …And a potato peeler in the top drawer of my desk. Gee, I wonder who paid me a visit.

**missanna718:** I don't remember falling asleep with a crowbar.

**MikeyEngel:** Where are my clothes?!

**AgEnTofcHaOs:** **Commish_Gordon** Give that back, ya filthy thief! That wasn't, ah, yer partin' gift…

**JonnyCrAnE:** …I'm soaking wet. Did it rain last night?

**AgEnTofcHaOs: missanna718** anna banana bandana fee fi fo…fanna has a 'lil case-a amnesia

**JonnyCrAnE: AgEnTofcHaOs** You suck at rhyming, clown.

**MikeyEngel:** Seriously, someone better give me back my damn clothes. I'm freezing my naked ass off.

**Commish_Gordon:** Road kill, in my mailbox. How thoughtful of you, Joker. At least it was gift wrapped…

**Commish_Gordon: MikeyEngel** please spare us that mental image, Mike.

**BruceWAYNE:** There's nothing but a receipt for…pencils. Pencils? $10, 000 worth of pencils, come on now.

**R_DawesXx: **Harveyyyyy, where are you? Answer me!

**JonnyCrAnE: MikeyEngel** Michael, I found your clothes. They're in a large vase of water sitting on top of the chandelier. Don't ask me. I don't know.

**R_DawesXx: AgEnTofcHaOs** this facepaint is a bitch to get off. I hate you. …Harvey, hit reply!!!

**brian_d:** Just woke up. Big mistake. Did I mention I'm afraid of heights?!

**Mr-Nolan:** No one's coming into school, I take it. Decision made.

**BruceWAYNE:** Okay, who puked all over my nice silk sheets and threw them under the table like I wouldn't notice?

**AgEnTofcHaOs: Commish_Gordon** aw, 'm touched. Sooo glad ya like it, Commish.

**AgEnTofcHaOs: R_DawesXx** hahahaha hee hee…ohh are ya sure 'bout that one? Didn' seem like it last night :}

**AgEnTofcHaOs:** Harvey, Harvey, Harvey Dent…

**brian_d:** Someone get me down! Now. Please…?

**JonnyCrAnE** I'm going back to sleep. I'm done with all of you imbeciles.

**MikeyEngel: brian_d** hey, while you're up there, would you mind throwing down my clothes?

**BruceWAYNE:** These were expensive sheets!

**missanna718:** I just discovered I've been lying on a clown mask. Clown mask + crowbar = memories I probably don't want to recall.

**brian_d: MikeyEngel** Yeah, if you'd like to catch me, too. Jerk.

**Reeseman: BruceWAYNE** Like you can't afford new ones. Cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it, Wayne!

**R_DawesXx: AgEnTofcHaOs** Oh no…no, no, no…ewww! Tell me we didn't. PLEASE. No! I hate you SO MUCH RIGHT NOW.

**R_DawesXx:** I really have an overwhelming need to brush my teeth.

**Commish_Gordon:** Enjoying a well-deserved day off in light of recent events. What they do off school property is NOT my problem.

**BruceWAYNE:** The sight of Jonathan Crane sleeping sprawled out across a table with empty beer cans around him is amusing. Not to mention he looks like a drowned rat.

**BruceWAYNE:** …Almost makes me forget about my missing wallet, destroyed bed sheets, and a ridiculous bill for pencils. Almost.

**MikeyEngel:** I wanna know where the hell Reese came from. Creeper.

**AgEnTofcHaOs: R_DawesXx** heh heh heh…you started it, sweetheart.

**MikeyEngel:** I'm beginning to have vague memories of strip poker. I don't like them.

**missanna718:** Please don't let me have a criminal record. I'll never get into college! My mom will kill me! This sucks. I'm never touching alcohol AGAIN.

**brian_d:** The ground is so far away. I think I'm going to be sick. Why does this shit always happen to me?

**R_DawesXx:** A shower would be better. Two showers, maybe. Yuckkk. I feel so gross!!

**R_DawesXx: AgEnTofcHaOs** DO NOT 'sweetheart' me! I hate you!

**BruceWAYNE:** Currently drawing all over Crane's face with Sharpie. That'll teach him not to fall asleep in random places. Anyone care to join?

**AgEnTofcHaOs: missanna718** Not if I kill you firrrrrrst, hmm?

**brian_d:** Hello, down there…where everything…looks like…ants. I'm gonna be sick…I'm gonna be sick…

**brian_d:** I need something to preoccupy myself. Before I puke.

**brian_d:** Oh, hey, look…there's a pack of cards in my pocket. And a book of matches. And some…bullets? Those are definitely not mine.

**AgEnTofcHaOs:** I do not, uh, ap-pre-ci-ate people stealinggg my stuff. I don't like it. at. all.

**Pennyworth007: BruceWAYNE** Master Wayne, you wouldn't be responsible for the garish mustache on my face, now would you?

**MikeyEngel:** Still naked…until Brian decides to throw my clothes down.

**R_DawesXx:** Going to find Harvey. …Eww, Mike, that's disgusting, dress yourself!

**missanna718:** I'm going home, before something even more disastrous happens and I somehow end up in Arkham. In a weird way, that would be like heaven in comparison. This is crazy.

**BruceWAYNE: Pennyworth007** I wouldn't know anything about that. When did you get a Twitter, Alfred?

**brian_d: MikeyEngel** Screw you, Mike. Taste the revenge of Karma! Mwuahahahaha!

**AgEnTofcHaOs:** Ohhhhh Ha-Ha-Harveyyy! Come out, come out where'ver you areeee!

**R_DawesXx: BruceWAYNE** I found your wallet. It's in the toilet, but I wouldn't go fishing it out, trust me. That's enough nasty images for today, thank you. Spare yourself the pain.

**AgEntofcHaOs: brian_d** save the maniacal laughter for the pros and don't, uh, quit yer day job, sport-o.

**R_DawesXx:** This fucking facepaint, I swear, it's like superglue. I need to get rid of the evidence. There nothing like clown makeup to make you feel like a slut. It figures.

**BruceWAYNE:** Masterpiece completed. I'm taking a picture and uploading it to Twitter and Facebook pronto. Blackmail!

**BruceWAYNE:** Oh…shit…

**brian_d:** Any day now, guys. Really.

**brian_d:** Did Batman drop off the face of the Earth or something? Helloooo! Citizen in distress here!

**JonnyCrAnE:** WAYNE!!

**MikeyEngel:** Interesting new developments. There's a beautiful blonde bombshell sleeping peacefully in Bruce Wayne's bed. Hopefully, she's realized what happened to the sheets…

**JonnyCrAnE:** where's my mask? I NEED my mask! Where's my damn mask?!

**JonnyCrAnE: brian_d** Don't be foolish, Douglas, bats are nocturnal. If you weren't such an idiot, you would know this.

**R_DawesXx:** I'll never be able to live this one down. Damn you to hell, Joker! My reputation is ruined!

**Commish_Gordon:** Sitting back watching the shenanigans unfold from the safety of my home. It feels good not to be responsible for cleaning up a mess, for once.

**AgEnTofcHaOs: R_DawesXx** already there, doll

**missanna718**: I'm grounded for the rest of my life. Thanks a lot, bottle of Captain Morgan, you've been a real good friend. No thanks to the Joker, either.

**BruceWAYNE**: Ever seen a drowned rat when it's pissed? It's both terrifying and hilarious.

**MikeyEngel: JonnyCrAnE** I found your mask. It's in an interesting location.

**Mr-Nolan: Commish_Gordon** I've got popcorn.

**AgEnTofcHaOs:** hm hmm hmmm…la la de la…well hellloooo, Brian.

**AgEnTofcHaOs: brian_d** Enjoying the…ah, view?

**DancerNat:** Why do I have a burlap bag over my head?

**R_DawesXx:** Beyond humiliated.

**BruceWAYNE:** **DancerNat** So you're the blonde bombshell in my…how did that one happen?

**JonnyCrAnE:** Huh. This is rather…fascinating.

**DancerNat: BruceWAYNE** Sorry about the mess. I guess I can't hold my liquor well.

**MikeyEngel:** The next issue of Gotham Today is going to be a success. I can see it already.

**BruceWAYNE:** So much for the sheets.

**brian_d:** I don't like having that clown in the same room with me, even if I'm like fifteen feet above him.

**AgEnTofcHaOs:** I am not. A. bad. Man…but I do bad thingsss…verrr-y bad thingsss…such hor-ri-ble thingsss…ha ha aha ha haha…aha…

**R_DawesXx:** Wait—guys, has anyone found Harvey yet??

**HarveyDent:** Why am I handcuffed to a fire hydrant?

* * *

**A/N: Make of it what you will. All I can say is that it was partially inspired by "The Hangover." Great movie. Should I do a chapter where you guys find out what happened during this party…? Let me know, and I just might. Points to whoever can name the song and artist of the lyrics The Joker had in his last Twitter update...**


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